An Emerald Light in the Darkness
by silverducks
Summary: Written for the Mischief and Mistletoe Exchange. Sif stands at the shores of Asgards and reflects on her relationship with a certain God of Mischief. Contains spoilers for Thor: The Dark World.


_A/N - I wrote this story for the Mischief and Mistletoe exchange on Tumblr/AO3 and thought I'd post it here too. It contains a few spoilers for Thor: The Dark World and the wonderful prompts for my story were:_

_1. "Your words are what got me into your bed. Don't abandon them now."_

_2. "Within the night, I let you strip my bones and lay me down, and lift the age from stone-white legs and snow-white arms, so long unused, forgotten in a cage of ice-white bones; my very bones you warm."_

_3. "Your silver skin soothes my aching curses, reminds me that you're worth it."_

_I hope you like it! It's currently a one shot, but I have a few ideas to continue it. _

* * *

The funeral was a surprising large and flamboyant affair. Many were gathered to witness Asgard's final farewell to its fallen Prince. Though whether they were here to gawp at the spectacle, or to seek the Allfather's favour, Sif could not be sure. She doubted many present were here to genuinely mourn the trickster, for though his final acts were ones of courage and valour, many still remembered him as the traitor, walking along the streets of Asgard in chains. But despite what words were whispered among the crowd, the Allfather had insisted upon a funeral fit for his son, a Prince of Asgard. Loki had died in honour, saving his brother's life and helping to save the nine realms from the wrath of Malekith. And so the crowd had gathered along the great shores of the Asgardian Sea, watching as the water flowed rapidly towards the edges of their world; waters once more about to take one of their own.

The Allfather stood proud and regal at the centre of the crowd, facing the small barge where the body of his fallen son lay. Thor stood by his side, face drawn but back straight, head held high. The mortal Jane by his side. Sif could see their hands clasped together, barely concealed under Thor's flowing cape. He had made his home on Midgard now, returning at the Allfather's bidding, but after he would always return to her, the mortal. And now he was once more in Asgard, becoming again the Prince he was born to be as he laid his brother's body to eternal rest.

The body had been retrieved a week ago from Svartalfheim. Thor had led a recovery mission, scouting out rumours of Dark Elves still in hiding and to find the body of his fallen brother. Thor had found it easily, the debris of the ships and the wreckage of the fighting had made for easy tracking. The cold, desolate waste of Svartalfheim had preserved his body well. And so in Asgard it now lay, dressed in the finest silk and leathers, the rich emerald ceremonial robes laced with gold. Thor had not asked her to accompany him on his mission and for that she was eternally grateful.

Now Loki's pale skin lay unblemished, his eyes closed and his face peaceful, as if merely laying in rest, not death. When Sif paid her respects to the fallen Prince, holding her clenched fist across her heart in the Warrior's salute, she had almost believed him alive, that this was nothing more than a cruel game from the trickster. But his body had remained motionless, no smirk dancing across his pale lips or emerald lights flashing in his palm. She had turned away quickly, hoping to banish the sight from her mind, but she knew it would haunt her forever.

She clenched her fists tightly and forced her eyes to look towards the Allfather to pay her respects. He was watching her curiously, almost scrutinising her, as if gauging her reaction. A shiver of disquiet rushed through her, her battle instincts suddenly weary, on alert. There was something strangely familiar in the Allfather's inquisitive gaze, something which pulled at her heart, her soul and threatened to rip it to pieces. She dropped her head quickly in respect and when she next met his eyes again they were distant once more, polite, clouded by grief, but distant, a King addressing a Lady of his court. Sif would have thought she imagined it, had she not felt his heavy gaze follow her as she turned towards his son.

There was nothing to say to her friend than what had already been spoken between them, so she lowered her head in respect, not quite able to meet Thor's eyes. A moment later she had felt his hand clasp her shoulder and she looked up in surprise, meeting his gaze. For a moment he did not try and hide his emotions and Sif saw a deep sadness in his eyes, sorrow and regret. And sympathy, a shared grief. Sif wondered then how much Thor suspected, whether he might have known all along. The weight in his eyes was too much to bear and Sif quickly turned away. She inclined her head in acknowledgement towards the mortal Jane, but there was too much pain and anguish hanging upon the King and his son to linger and she walked quickly away, taking her place among the crowds lining the shoreline. Trying to disappear within the mass of people, alone in the crowd where it was easier to breath. But eyes followed her and she knew her reaction to the mortal would fuel the gossiping tongues of the court for many days. But Sif no longer cared. What did it matter what truths they whispered, they would never believe her contradictions, no matter how much she protested or how she acted. And what did the truth matter now?

A hush fell over the crowd as the Allfather stepped forwards, turning to address the people. His voice was strong, his countenance held firm and regal but there was a weariness etched across his face and his eyes darted about, as if fearful of nearby enemies. He was not the same; the whispers had travelled quickly across Asgard, even now spreading to the other realms. It had taken too much of a toll on him, the Queen's death, the battle with the Dark Elves and now the funeral for his second son. But still he held the sympathy and respect of his people, so none dared to mention when he acted strangely, when he issued commands inconsistent with his previous rule. But the people were disquiet, with their King deeply grieving and their remaining Prince choosing to abdicate, many feared war would once more sweep across the realms, when peace had only so recently been won.

The words the Allfather spoke were ones of praise, focusing on the merits of his second, adopted son, not his crimes. The crowd listened patiently, a suitable sadness hanging in the air, even if it were not as great as that for the Queen's. As she listened to the Allfathers words, the stories weaved together so eloquently, Sif wondered how the people would remember the fallen Prince. Would they see the small boy, the young man, joining his brother and friends on their many adventures together, returning home in triumph and glory? Would they see the Frost Giant, the traitor bound in chains? Or would they see the hero, the courageous Prince who had died to save his brother? Sif did not allow herself to think upon her own thoughts of the fallen Prince, though as the Allfather continued, Sif could not hide the heaviness growing within her heart.

With his final words, calling upon the great mother Yggdrasil to accept her fallen child, the Allfather held Loki's horned helmet high above his head, the silver moonlight flickering across the gold as if brining it to life. With a solemnity and grandeur, he placed it upon Loki's chest, next to his throwing knives held tightly within clenched fingers. He bowed his head for several moments before he pushed forwards on the barge, releasing it to the Asgardian sea.

The current was strong this day and soon the small barge reached the centre of the sea, barely discernable now in the blackness of the Asgardian night. Sif watched it float away, each moment a further reminder that Loki was lost from her forever now. She tried to convince herself it did not matter, that the body that lay in the barge was not the man she knew, the man she had grown up with. He was a stranger to her, twisted by unpleasant truths and hungry for power, the man who had brought chaos to the nine realms she was sworn to protect. And she tried to convince herself she had already lost him, on that day of Thor's coronation, when they had travelled to Jotenheim and Loki had learnt the truth of his heritage. But all she could remember was the night before, when Loki had been even more sullen and distant than of late. The memories brought regrets; that she had not realised what the trickster had planned, that she had not tried harder to discover what was wrong during those last few days before Loki's first fall. But on that night she had been preoccupied with herself, calling him out only on his distant behaviour towards her. She remembered the words she had uttered clearly, "Your words are what got me into your bed. Do not abandon them now."

The words had surprised Loki and she remembered the look that flashed within his eyes. A look of anger, mixed with sorrow, bitterness and frustration. But then a moment later it was gone, his lips had broken into a smirk, his eyes once more dancing with mischief. A disguise, a rouse, Sif had known then just as clearly as she knew now. But she had let him pull her close, wrap his arms around her and whisper the silvered words into her ears, "Within the night, I let you strip my bones and lay me down, and lift the age from stone-white legs and snow-white arms, so long unused, forgotten in a cage of ice-white bones; my very bones you warm."

The truth was mixed within the lies, his words had spoken what he knew she wanted to hear, but Sif had allowed it, like so many times before. She had not tried to piece apart the underlying lies, had not looked for the hidden truths and meanings. She had let herself become distracted by his lips at her ear, trailing across her jaw and burning along her neck. Her own reply was barely a whisper, "Your silver skin soothes my aching curses, reminds me that you are worth it."

As the small boat raced towards the cascading waterfalls at the edge of their world, Sif could not stop herself from wondering how different things could have been. Would she still be standing here, in the bitter cold along the shoreline, had she questioned Loki that night, the day after? Had she argued with her friend seated upon his father's throne rather than raced down to Midgard to save her friend? She knew the regrets were pointless, a wound allowed to fester when she should let go, allow it to heal, but the memories would not stop plaguing her.

And memories they would forever be, for even now the small boat was nearing the edge. The Allfather raised his arms in signal and a bright, flaming arrow raced across the night sky, landing within the pyre for the fallen Prince of Asgard. The barge burst into flames and a gasp rippled through the crowds. The flames burnt brightly, but there was no ripple of orange or red or yellow. Instead they burned with the colour of the richest of emeralds, casting a strange, almost eerie light across the turbulent blackness of the Asgardian Sea. A moment later a small sphere of light rose from the Allfather's fingers, floating up into the Asgardian night. Sif watched it weave and dance, cast about by the bitter winds, before it was joined by another, and another. Sif held her own sphere in her palms; it was burning brightly now, lit by the Allfather's magic and Sif did not want to let it go. She watched the magic flames flicker and dance in her palms, warm and comforting, the magic strangely familiar. But then she felt heavy eyes once more fall upon and she did not need to look to know they were the Allfather's. She let go of the light quickly, fearing what the Allfather knew, what he suspected. She watched as it hung for a moment before her, as if a silent goodbye, a promise. Then a gust of wind ripped it away and it rushed upwards into the black, star studded sky. She had thought it would be easier this time, as if one could practice at mourning, at the pain of loss. But a heart poorly mended breaks into many more pieces the second time and Sif watched as the light twisted and turned in the breeze, a strange, final game. Watched until it became lost in the crowd of emerald lights, as lost to her as the trickster himself. And if there were not as many lights as for the beloved Queen, it was of no matter, for each burned brightly, turning the blackness of the night a rich, emerald green as if they set the very skies on fire.

The barge had reached the great waterfalls now and for a moment it hung suspended above the chasm between the realms. Suspended between both life and death, the emerald flames still burning. The Allfather raised his arm and a hush once more fell across the crowd. They were waiting, as if they expected one final trick, a game to unravel from the God of Mischief. Or perhaps it was only Sif who longed for that, for Loki to appear before the flames, alive and breathing and not still laying in state. But then, the Allfather dropped his arm down and the small barge fell, tumbling through the waterfalls as it disappeared into the depths of the universe, a journey the body had made before. But this time Sif knew there would be no return and she watched as shards of light appeared above the waterfall, glistening with an almost blinding brightness as they floated upwards towards the very stars themselves. For though the second Prince of Asgard had once been a traitor, the Allfather had insisted his son's ashes still deserved to be scattered among the stars. A constant reminder, the Allfather had said, that any could be redeemed and forgiven. Though for Sif, the reminder would always be much more painful.


End file.
